


Just a Moment Too Late

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is 14, Eventual Sterek, Human AU, Kate Argent is her own warning, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Murder, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Suicide, drug addict peter, stiles is 16, tags will evolve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26460295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Derek Hale is fourteen when he is murdered. Instead of that being the end of his story, he watches life go on for the people of Beacon Hills, until one day he sees a new family move in. Stiles Stilinski doesn't mind Beacon Hills. His dad is the new sheriff, so everyone treats him well. However, Stiles is a detective at heart, and Beacon Hills has a secret: Derek Hale's murder.Of course, Stiles can't leave well enough alone. He's going to solve Derek's murder if it's the last thing he does.It just might be.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 34
Kudos: 70





	1. Bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed all warnings.
> 
> This story is inspired by a recent news story of a solved cold case. It also has a similar premise to _The Lovely Bones_ by Alice Sebold, which I have not read in at least twelve years. Honestly, the outline I created came from a line in the news article more than the book, but I didn't realize just how like the plot of the book it was until I was reading it back to myself. I apologize if this story comes in poor taste.
> 
> Title comes from Silversun Pickups' _Don't Know Yet_.
> 
> Story spoilers in end notes.

Derek Hale died on a Wednesday.

It was unremarkable aside from the fact that it was supposed to be nearly 70 degrees and the day started with frost on the ground and only got worse.

He supposes he should have known something was wrong that day when he woke up to Jack Frost painting his windows, but he’d been excited about the prospect of a snow day.

Mostly because he had one teacher he hated with a burning passion.

Katherine Argent.

She made his life a living hell. Plus she was sexually abusing him.

He hadn’t had the words for it for a long time, and then his best friend dragged him to an event where people of all ages and sizes, men and women, stood up and talked about how they were assaulted. He’d realized that night then what his teacher was doing to him.

So Wednesday, the not-snow day, when he was walking to school, Kate Argent had pulled up next to him, tried to convince him to get in her car, and when he told her that he was going to tell others about what she was doing to him, she chased him.

Derek hid in an old root cellar, hoping that she would get tired and give up. She had to go to school and he was hoping that she’d forget about him.

No such luck.

He learned, later, that she had taken the day off specifically to be with him. And she couldn’t just let him get away with threatening her. So, she had all day, and he didn’t.

She’d ended up finding him, hitting him with something—a metal bar, Derek later found she’d acquired just for this purpose—and then she raped him while he bled out.

Her last goodbye.

She left him in that root cellar, pants pulled down, shirt rucked up, blood and brains mixing on the dirt floor.

Derek actually took his last breath just before his uncle, the only other person to remember the cellar existed, found him.

Some days, Derek thinks he can still hear Peter’s anguished cries. Other days, he spends watching his family go about their days, wishing they knew what he knew.

Derek had been killed in 2004, and although they had collected DNA from him, Kate had been careful with everything else. She wasn’t even on the Sheriff Department’s radar. Hell, his own family hadn’t suspected anyone was bothering their little boy like that.

Kate managed to get away with it.

She was still teaching in Beacon Hills, but she hadn’t taken another victim. Not that Derek has seen, and he spends almost as much time watching her as he does his family.

He’s not a ghost. He can’t go back down to Earth and walk where he once used to, but he knows things. He still sees and hears things, but it’s like he’s a bird, floating above everything, detached from it.

He calls them bubbles. Little windows to the world he used to live in. There are several, and he tries to watch them all, rotating based on the person the bubble seems to focus on.

He’s aware of time passing, but he isn’t sure how much it is. He can be watching his mom hang up laundry one day, with his little sister, Cora, tugging at her skirts—she was six when he died—and then he’s watching some time later and his sister, now sixteen, is painting her nails to match her prom date’s dress.

Sometimes, he thinks time goes back and forth. One bubble might show five years, another shows ten years, and one just shows his death over and over again.

Derek doesn’t watch that bubble anymore. Not after he discovered he could walk away from it.

He thinks it’s been about twenty years when he trips over a new bubble on his way between his older sister’s wedding—Laura had been twenty when he died—and Cora’s prom.

Derek doesn’t recognize anyone in the new bubble, and fascinated, he watches as two men unload a baby blue Jeep into what used to be Sheriff Calhoun’s house.

The old sheriff died about five years ago when it became increasingly clear that his quality of life was giving out. Out of respect for the man—he was the only person to even look at Kate Argent with suspicion—Derek watched him take his pills and then stop breathing.

It took over a week before Calhoun’s ex-wife found him. And then Derek moved back to his bubbles.

Now, he watches as the younger of the two men takes off his shirt to mop at his face.

 _Stiles,_ Derek hears, distorted. _Put your shirt back on. I don’t need to arrest my own son for indecent exposure._

Stiles pouts but pulls his shirt back on. Derek, who has never grown up, permanently fourteen and stuck here in this limbo, watches with interest, tipping forward to watch as closely as he can as Stiles stalks around, hauling boxes like they weigh nothing.

When Derek was actually fourteen, he could barely lift Cora anymore. His dad had been talking about building a home gym so that he could teach Derek how to lift weights. But then Derek died, so he never got to do that. He watches as Stiles throws boxes around like it’s his job, and almost forgets to go watch Laura get married again.

Every few days after that, Derek peeks in on Stiles and learns a lot. Like, they moved to town because Stiles’ mom died. Stiles’ dad is the new sheriff. Stiles is sixteen and a sophomore at Beacon Hills High School.

He also learns that Stiles has the curiosity of a cat and the self preservation of a baby.

Derek wonders if they would have been friends had they met when he was still alive, and then immediately dismisses that idea. In Stiles’ bubble, Cora is a substitute teacher. She’s twenty-four. Derek would have been thirty-two. In no world is that not creepy.

Reminded strongly of Kate and her behavior, Derek avoids Stiles after that.

And because of that, he misses the most important thing that has happened in Beacon Hills since his murder: Stiles’ murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story spoilers: Major character death refers to both Derek and Stiles' deaths. Kate Argent grooms (off screen) Derek and then rapes him after hitting him with a killing blow. Peter is an off-screen drug addict.


	2. Beacon Hills

Stiles doesn’t hate Beacon Hills. It’s charming. It’s nice. And they are willing to overlook the fact that their new Sheriff likes to drink every night after work.

But Beacon Hills isn’t home.

And since Mom will never be here, it never will be either.

Stiles knuckles away the pain that always accompanies the stray thoughts of his mom. She’s been dead nearly eight years now. Some days, she might have never existed, and others Stiles can’t get out of bed.

Stiles spends most of his days exploring his neighborhood. Most of the neighbors are little old ladies who love having the sheriff and his son nearby. He fixes fences and gates while cookies and lemonade are traded like back alley organs.

One of the places he goes to get away from it all is the graveyard. Beacon Hills has three of them, but Stiles’ favorite is the Presbyterian cemetery on the edge of town. Most of the stones are super old with dates from the 1800s. There is one newer grave on the west side.

Derek S. Hale. Beloved son. Missed always. Born 1990. Died 2004. Encased in an album stuck to a stake are news clippings.

Intrigued, Stiles flips through the album.

Huh. He’d thought cancer or something. Nope. Murder.

Derek S. Hale was murdered three days after his fourteenth birthday.

Still unsolved.

Double huh.

Stiles uses his phone to take pictures of the articles. Mostly so that he can remember to look them up later. He’ll have to talk to his dad too, see if there’s a box at the station that he can have a peek at.

The answer probably is no, but that’s never stopped Stiles before.

With this new mystery under his belt, he returns to the old ladies and gleefully pumps them for information in between bites of snickerdoodles.

Turns out the Hales lived on the edge of town until one fall day impersonating winter, their son went missing and turned up dead less than five hours later.

They still live in town but moved out of their large family home.

If Stiles wants to talk to Talia or James Hale, he can find them at the pharmacy or garage respectively. They have two daughters, one older than Derek, one younger, and neither stayed in town, but there are rumors that the younger one is coming back to teach at Beacon Hills High, where Stiles will have to attend come August 17 in a week.

Peter, Derek’s uncle, and the one who found the body, is gone. Long, long gone. He was sixteen when his nephew died. Less than a year later, he was using hard drugs and had hitched a ride down to San Francisco, where, if the lady with the lemon shortbread cookies is to be believed, he overdosed and is now in a care facility.

Stiles thanks them for their information, promises to make his mom’s molasses cookies for their next get together, and then drives the Jeep down to the station.

Dad is in the middle of organizing his office when Stiles pokes his head in.

“Hey, got a question.”

“Sure.”

“Any old cases, like unsolved?”

Dad straightens from where he’s dumping a few personal items, like a stress ball and a picture of them before Mom got sick, into a drawer. He pins Stiles’ with an icy glare. “No.” And then he goes back rearranging the contents of the drawer.

“Well, I found one.”

Dad waves him away. “The answer is still no. Even if it is sitting in cold cases. You are not to go anywhere unauthorized.”

“You can’t keep an eye on me always.” Stiles grins at his dad. “But don’t worry: I’m not going to endanger your job just for kicks. I just wanted to know if they’ve released any information on cases to the public. I mean, it’s better for me to legally help you, right?”

Dad points at him. “You. Are. Not. Helping. Me. Not in the slightest.”

Stiles holds up his hands. “Fine. Jeez, Dad. I won’t help you solve anything.” He winks. “I’ll just solve it on my own.”

He leaves before his dad can do more than draw in the breath he’s going to use to yell at him.

Stiles laughs all the way to his Jeep and drives to the library.

He signs up for a library card, plops onto a computer, and starts researching the Hales. He uses a few dozen pieces of scrap paper to scribble notes, counts his cash, and then prints off several articles, many of the same ones located in the album at Derek’s grave.

He also finds a few pictures of Derek. Cute kid. Cute family. Damn shame what’s happened to them.

After paying for his copies, he heads to a department store for a bulletin board and some tacks. He has string leftover from when he tried to teach himself to knit, and as soon as he’s home, he digs it out.

Half an hour later, he has everything set up. He pins a picture of Derek to the top of the board and then lays out the articles.

He doesn’t know where to start. Or what the cops already know.

He picks up one of the articles. It’s by Matt Daehler. Stiles should see if he’s still around somewhere.

The article is well written, full of information that frankly makes Stiles uncomfortable. This Matt Daehler must have been deep into the case to have all this information. But he probably also made the local Sheriff’s job a lot harder.

Stiles sees note of a root cellar where Derek’s body was recovered. About three miles from the Hale house. In the middle of the preserve.

It can’t still be a crime scene. Might as well check it out.

It’s still the heart of summer, so Stiles grabs his backpack, sticks a few water bottles in it, a pad of paper, and a couple pens. He takes his flashlight and extra batteries. Stuffs a box of granola bars in too along with an emergency flare his dad got him last year. He grabs gloves and a sweater in case it’s cold underground.

Stiles throws the backpack into his Jeep, leaves a note on the fridge for his dad, and heads out.

It’s mid afternoon now, and Stiles is on a roll. The first day is always the easiest. That’s the day everything is learned and fresh eyes meet the horizon.

The second day is much like the first, but there never is anything quite like finding a new mystery to unravel.

Stiles stops at a gas station and buys two maps. One of the state of California and the other for Beacon Hills. He marks where he thinks the root cellar is on the B.H. map and then drives out to the preserve.

The hike into to the root cellar isn’t nearly as bad as he was expecting, and he arrives at his destination with plenty of sunlight to see that it quite literally is a root cellar. There is a stump, some large tree chopped down after a few hundred years of guarding the forest, in the middle of a suspicious clearing. Nestled among the exposed roots is a pair of doors leading down to where Derek Hale met his demise.

Stiles uses a glove to open the doors even though there are likely no fingerprints since the handles are exposed to the elements.

It definitely is at least ten or fifteen degrees cooler under the tree. Enough that Stiles’ skin prickles into goose flesh. He shrugs on his sweater and flicks on the flashlight.

Everything is dusty, dirty. The air is stale, rank with something unpleasant. It’s old, untouched. Every step down the crooked stairs sends dust billowing. Stiles covers his mouth and nose, squints into the dark, sweeping his light over everything.

Cracked and broken shelves, shattered glass. A discoloration in the center of the room.

Stiles stares at it for a long moment, imagining Derek lying there. According to Matt Daehler’s article, Derek had died from a head wound. He’d bled out a lot but his brain had also swelled.

It was the coroner’s opinion that Derek may well have not lived even if he’d been found shortly after the attack.

And his uncle, drug addict Peter Hale, had been the one to find him. That’s harsh.

Stiles stays on the bottom step, just observing.

The place had been combed eighteen years ago when the murder had occurred, but that didn’t mean something couldn’t have been missed.

He needs to see the crime scene photos. See if there might be anything that could have been missed.

The murder weapon was never recovered, widely theorized to have been taken by the killer because it could have identified them.

Stiles calls it a day, goes back home.

He needs to make the cookies he promised, and he wants to make a comprehensive kit in case he does discover something the cops missed.

He also needs to get his dad to investigate the cold case. Stiles isn’t the only fresh eyes this case could use. Besides, it’s easier to do things when his dad is on board with the plan.

Makes it legal and all.


	3. No Longer Alone

Derek isn’t sure what he’s seeing at first.

He is passing by his murder-bubble, trying hard not to think about that day, when he realizes that there is a body lying next to the bubble.

He thinks it might be Peter, so he edges closer, but then he catches sight of a mole-spotted face, long lashes curled on pale cheeks.

It’s Stiles. From the Sheriff’s house. With a baby blue Jeep he calls Roscoe when no one’s listening.

What is Stiles doing here?

Derek moves even closer, and then accidentally glances down in the bubble. Wait. It’s not _his_ bubble. Not exactly. It’s right next to it.

Derek watches as Stiles in the bubble walks down into the root cellar. He has gloves on and he digs through a corner at the back of the cellar, shifting rotted wood and clumps of dirt out of his way. Eventually, he stands up, a metal bar dangling from his hand. He’s smiling to himself.

_Gotcha_ , he mutters.

Then, someone strikes him from behind. Smashes his head like a pumpkin. Strikes him over and over again until his head is so destroyed that Derek has to look at the body next to the bubble to make sure that Stiles is really there, unharmed.

Once it’s obvious that Stiles is dead, the figure straightens and pushes back her hood.

Derek recoils, mouth dry, pulse pounding.

It’s Kate Argent.

Kate Argent just killed Stiles.

Derek whimpers. He knows the pain his family went through, is still going through, so many years after his death. For Stiles’ dad to suffer the same fate is horrible.

Derek forces himself to lean over the bubble again, to watch as Kate strips off Stiles’ gloves, takes the metal pole she used on Derek and the bat she used on Stiles, and leaves.

At least she didn’t rape him.

Stiles next to the bubble groans and the scene resets.

Derek helps Stiles sit up. He remembers when he first woke up here. His head ached for days and often, he had double vision. It had taken him at least a month before he was strong enough to walk away from his own murder-bubble.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he says, voice rough with disuse. Why, he wonders. He doesn’t have an actual body. His vocal chords shouldn’t be disused even though he doesn’t talk anymore.

“Where am I?” Stiles asks.

“In limbo,” Derek replies. It’s the best answer he has. He didn’t believe in Heaven when he was on Earth, so he wasn’t really sure what kind of afterlife he’d have. He certainly didn’t think he’d get stuck watching his life go on without him, and that isn’t anyone’s definition of heaven. It also really isn’t hell either, so he’s decided that it must be limbo.

Stiles squints at him. “What?” He looks around and then drops his head into his hands with a sharp cry.

Derek waits it out.

“We’re in limbo?” Stiles finally asks. “And you’re Derek S. Hale.”

“Yes. To both.”

Stiles gives him an odd look. “I didn’t know Presbyterians believed in limbo.”

Derek gives him his own odd look. “I’m not Presbyterian. My parents just buried my body in the cemetery closest to my home.”

“And the Presbyterians were okay with it?”

“My great-great-grandparents founded that cemetery. They were also the only Presbyterians in Beacon Hills. Hence, why it’s the Presbyterian cemetery but yet everyone who can buy a plot there can be buried.”

“But there’s a Presbyterian Church and everything,” Stiles points out.

“That’s new.” There wasn’t a church in 2004 when Derek died. Must have been founded in the eighteen years that Derek’s been up here, and since his family isn’t Presbyterian, it stands to reason that it wouldn’t be featured in any of their bubbles.

And while Laura did get married in a church, she got married in Tucson, Arizona.

Stiles keeps a hand pressed to his head. “So, what can we do in limbo?”

Derek points at Stiles’ murder-bubble. “There are bubbles that I can watch the going-ons through.” When Stiles leans over to peer down into his own bubble, Derek grabs him and twists him over to another bubble. It’s not Derek’s own murder-bubble, but it’s close.

It’s one of the times that Kate cornered him outside of school. Stiles watches with close interest, but Derek feels the same shame and embarrassment as that day, and studies his shoes, the same beat up sneakers that he was murdered in.

Derek’s whole outfit is exactly as it was when he was killed: a red zippered sweatshirt over a Depeche Mode t-shirt stolen from Peter’s closet, and stiff jeans given to him on his birthday.

He’d been a little chilly walking to school but had figured he’d warm up eventually and then be inside all day anyway.

He doesn’t remember if he was cold after Kate caught him. He just remembers her coming down the steps. He’d been hiding in the corner, near where Stiles found the metal bar Kate used to hit him.

His mind has blanked out everything that happened after he backed into a shelf and sent a jar tumbling to the ground where it shattered.

Kate got him.

What he knows about the next events, he saw from the bubble. That’s how he knows Kate struck him once, hard enough that that was all it took. One blow.

He didn’t die immediately. Derek watched his body struggle for air long after Kate finished with him and dragged him to the center of the room. She didn’t bother cleaning him off or fixing his clothes, but she did kick dirt over the trail of blood and bury the bar under all the crap in the corner.

He watched until Peter found him, and he couldn’t watch anymore.

Then, the scene reset and he watched himself as he ran down the stairs, crawled into the corner and waited.

Derek watched a hundred times before he discovered that he could move and walk away.

He won’t let Stiles go through that. But he does plan on coming back to check if someone finds Stiles.

Kate took even less care with Stiles than she had with Derek. Almost like she thought that no one would find him. No one would look.

Derek knows better.

He’d seen the way the town has taken to their new sheriff and his son. The Sheriff will have help when he realizes that his son never came home.

“Hey, do you know what today is?” Stiles asks.

Derek turns away from the bubbles to find that he’s standing up, wavering on his feet, hands still against his head.

“What?” he asks woodenly. He already knows the answer.

“Today is the anniversary of your death. It’s officially been eighteen years since you were killed.”

“And now it’s the anniversary of your death too,” Derek says. Stiles glances up sharply. He looks from Derek to the bubble that Derek won’t let him look in.

“Well fuck,” he says right before he tips backwards and passes out again.

Derek stares at him. He didn’t know incorporeal beings such as themselves could pass out like that.

He looks around, decides that there is nothing else to do but wait for Stiles to wake up again, and settles in next to him.

Stiles doesn’t move when Derek pulls his head into his lap.

This might take a while.


	4. Detective Work, Part I

Stiles puts his head down and charges into his class work the same way he’s been consuming every piece of information about Derek Hale he can get his hands on.

All his teachers hate him though because while he is good at school, he also forgets to do his homework. Side effect of his ADHD. And his Adderall usage. Also because researching the case is way more interesting than reading some dumb story about a kid that runs away to join the circus during the Great Depression.

Surprisingly, even though he spends months failing outside of class, his grades don't suffer too badly. Most of the time.

Parent teacher conferences loom over everything, but inevitably, all Dad says when he gets back from meeting with Stiles’ teachers is that he needs to apply himself to his homework like his in-school grades.

Dad also brings home the Hale case at this time.

His reasoning is too many deputies kept sticking fingers where they don’t belong, and if Dad wants any peace at all, home is where it’s at.

Every shift, he takes it in, and when he comes home, there it is. It’s rarely out of sight, and never long enough for Stiles to actually see what the contents are. To him, it’s just a brown banker’s box with some water damage on one corner and a case number on the front.

One day, though, after a horrible car accident that ends up claiming the lives of three people, Dad stumbles home, opens a fresh bottle of whiskey, drains about half of it in an hour, and then passes out on the couch.

Stiles takes the bottle away, puts it back in its “hiding” spot, and then searches his dad’s office for the case box.

It’s not there.

After a second of panic, Stiles runs outside and finds it buckled into the front passenger seat. He gloves up just in case his dad is paranoid enough to fingerprint the box and then carries it to his dad’s study.

There’s a folding table set up against one wall and the desk is cleared of everything except a computer and a lamp. It’s pretty obvious what his dad has been doing for the past three weeks whenever he’s home.

Stiles would feel insulted but his dad is drinking less when he’s working on Derek’s case. So. Stiles just needs to take pictures of everything, see what the pieces are.

He opens the box and takes a picture of it as it is so that he can put everything back where it belongs.

Then he digs in.

There’s paper bags filled with Derek’s clothing from that day. Seals are open already, so Stiles just lifts a flap to catalog it. Bloody shirt and bloody sweater. Jeans are dirt-scuffed and there’s a small stain noted on the front, by the fly.

Stiles sets all the bags on the table. There’s a corresponding folder filled with photographs of the clothing. There’s two sets, one on Derek’s body, and the other on a lighted table. Poor Derek looks like he’d just be asleep aside from the massive wound on his head. It’s almost like his attacker tried to squish his head. There are no defensive wounds, no other bruises.

Stiles quickly takes pictures of the photographs, flipping through clothes, body, location, autopsy.

The kid suffered; there is no doubt about that. Although, Stiles finds that the coroner’s report surmises that after the first blow, Derek never regained consciousness. Also he didn’t die for about two hours after he was struck. The coroner also thinks that Derek was sexually assaulted some time after the blow. A mix of semen and vaginal fluid was recovered from his exposed penis.

Stiles has to stop then. Fourteen years old. Raped by a woman, presumably the same person that killed him. Left to die in the middle of a root cellar.

How horrible.

Also, Stiles understands now why the Hales moved. It’s not like Derek was missing and going to come back some day. The crime scene is less than three miles from the house, and Peter was the one to discover the body.

It has to be rough staying in the same town too. Obviously for Derek’s sisters and uncle, they had to get out. Stiles doesn’t even know if Talia and James stayed married. Statistically, if a child dies, the parents get divorced after, the grief too strong.

A quick check on Dad shows that he’s solidly asleep. Good. Stiles needs at least another couple hours with the evidence box.

It’s almost 4:00 in the morning before Stiles has everything corralled back into the box in the right order.

He buckles it back in his dad’s cruiser and disposes of the gloves in his neighbor’s trash.

He sets a water bottle on the coffee table, tucks a bucket by his dad’s head, and tucks him in before heading upstairs where he spends another two hours downloading the pictures off his phone and organizing them.

By the time he’s ready for bed, he has to go to school.

All day, he’s zoned out, barely paying attention. He can’t even muster the energy to care when his dickish biology teacher gives him detention.

Dad’s gone when he gets back, the first of many dances they do.

Somehow, before Stiles realizes it, it’s been a month since he looked through the box.

He's printed out all the pictures of the evidence that he took. He’s also been back to the root cellar a dozen times. He discovered a covered trail of blood leading to one corner.

He hasn’t actual dug around in that corner because 1) the cops surely did it before so there can’t be anything new to discover and 2) he doesn’t have the proper tools yet for an evidence excavation in case the cops did miss something.

Instead, he’s been following up on Calhoun’s suspect list.

There are sixteen names.

Number one is Peter Hale, Derek’s drug addict uncle who also discovered his body. Apparently, it was “too much of a coincidence” that Peter knew exactly where Derek was.

Derek’s parents, older sister, and her boyfriend at the time round out the top five.

Then it moves on to convicted sexual offenders that lived in the area at the time. Teachers at the school. Stiles isn’t surprised to see Adrian Harris’ name on the list. He knew there was a reason he doesn’t like the asshole and not just because Harris’ favorite two pastimes are making students cry and giving them detention.

Surprisingly, another teacher, the freshman English teacher, and the only non-familial woman, is also on the list. Stiles hasn’t had any actual interactions with Kate Argent aside from her supervising lunch, but if she’s who he’s recalling, she’s a decently attractive woman who dresses like she’s still in her twenties even though she’s obviously well into her forties. She watches students in a subtle way. Honestly, Stiles is surprised he didn't come across any DNA reports on either Derek's family or Kate Argent. Did the cops even care that Derek had been raped?

Additionally, there’s no notes on any interviews conducted aside from the immediate family and the sexual offenders, and nothing useful in them.

Stiles hits his head against a wall, figuratively and literally. Until he gets the brilliant idea to contact three key people: Peter Hale, the old Sheriff, David Calhoun, and Matt Daehler, the all-knowing reporter.

Immediately, he runs into the problem of not knowing how to contact Peter without going through his family, and Stiles is not ready to do that. No need to stir up any unhealed trauma by asking Talia to speak to her brother about her son’s murder.

Then, he’s dealt another blow when he discovers that Calhoun died about five years ago.

At least Matt Daehler is still alive, and according to his bio, still living in Beacon Hills.

Stiles calls the paper he works for, the same one he wrote his articles for, and asks to meet with Matt.

Daehler agrees far too easily, almost demanding they have lunch on Saturday.

Stiles prepares a list of questions for Daehler even though he thinks that as a veteran reporter, Daehler will know how to dodge those questions and instead pump Stiles for information. Not that they know more than each other, according to Daehler’s articles.

Then, he waits.


	5. Detective Work, Part II

Daehler isn’t anything like Stiles expected. He’d looked up his picture, so he was expecting the obvious toupee and the atrocious goatee that goes with it. What he isn’t expecting is the large banker’s box Daehler dumps on the table.

“So, you wanna be a reporter, kid?” he asks condescendingly.

“No,” Stiles says, picking up the menu. He’s always been curious to try chicken and waffles. It sounds like an abomination with the syrupy picture to back it up, but that’s Stiles’ _modus operandi_ : try the weird stuff, see what’s good. Someone somewhere liked it, so who’s to say that Stiles won’t like it too. “I’m going to be a detective.”

Daehler snorts, opening his own menu. “Good luck with that, kid. So far, your instincts are shit.” After a beat, he adds, “No offense.”

“Offense taken,” Stiles says. “I know you had an inside source, eighteen years ago. You wouldn’t have been able to write as comprehensively. No one else had as in depth articles as you.” Stiles lays his menu down, taking Daehler’s and placing it on top. “Either you can give me your source, or I can get my dad involved.”

Daehler laughs. “Your dad is new to this town. He doesn’t understand the politics. And neither do you. If you think you can pretend to threaten me to get me to reveal my source, well, you’re just shit out of luck, aren’t you?”

“Unless you are your own source.” Stiles studies Daehler. He doesn’t look rattled, so that’s not it. “Was it a family member?” Daehler blinks. Stiles points at him. “Did you get Peter Hale addicted to whatever drugs he’s on in exchange for information?”

Daehler smiles so cold it almost freezes Stiles’ blood. “And what if I did?” he asks, conversationally, like discussing weather. “What are you going to do about it now?”

Stiles grabs Daehler’s box and books it to his Jeep.

He climbs inside, locking the doors. Daehler slams against the door a second later.

“Give me back my stuff.”

Stiles starts his Jeep and reverses out. He’s a little worried that Daehler knows where he lives. Beacon Hills is a small town, and it was big news when he and his dad moved in.

He speeds home. Unlocking his front door, grabbing everything from his room, and racing back out to his Jeep takes less than ten minutes. Going back to relock the door makes his heart pound painfully. He needs a command center where Daehler won’t find him. Maybe the library? He passes Daehler as he takes the turn that will take him downtown.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Stiles squeals around the corner, Daehler already on his ass again.

No other choice but to head to the Sheriff’s Station. Safest place for him now.

Well, except for the fact that Stiles very definitely stole Daehler’s box. He should at least see what he got. If it’s something shady, he can use that to influence his dad going easy on him. With one eye on the road, Stiles flips open the lid, digs out a sheaf of papers, and flies past a red light.

Daehler’s brakes screech as he stops halfway into the intersection. Stiles’ delight is short-lived because, oh fuck, that’s one of his father’s deputies. And there go the sirens and lights.

Stiles pulls over immediately. Oh crap, he’s so dead.

While he waits for the deputy to climb out of her vehicle, Stiles reads the top sheet.

Autopsy report on Derek S. Hale.

Stiles shuffles the papers, finds Daehler’s notes on his interview with Peter Hale. Noted at the top is time, date, and how much heroin he supplied to sixteen year old Peter Hale to get him to talk about finding his nephew’s still-warm body.

That’s just fucked up. Stiles stuffs the papers back into the box and pulls out his license and proof of insurance.

Deputy Tara Graeme knocks on his window.

“Hi, Deputy,” Stiles says, watching over her shoulder as Daehler drives past and parks a few blocks up the street.

“Stiles.” Deputy Graeme definitely has her disappointed voice on today. Stiles has only witnessed it once before, when he was dropping off some food for his dad, and he walked in on Graeme talking to her daughter about underage partying going on at her college.

“I’m sorry,” he says before she can berate him for his wrongdoings. “I know I was going a little fast and that I accidentally ran that light, but I was trying to get away from someone.”

Graeme lowers her sunglasses to pin him with an icy glare. “Who?”

“Matt Daehler.” Stiles hands her his license.

“What are you doing getting tangled up with that creep?”

Stiles points at the box on his passenger seat. “He was going to give me some more information about the Hale murder for a school project I’m working on. But he got kind of pissed when he realized that he left his notes about interviewing Peter Hale in the box.”

“Now why would he be mad about that?” Graeme glances at the box and then at the surrounding cars. She jerks her thumb toward Daehler’s car. “That him?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Hang tight. I’m going to run your license. Got your insurance too? Thanks.”

Graeme goes back to her cruiser while Stiles drums his fingers on Roscoe’s steering wheel.

Daehler hasn’t moved yet, and Stiles doesn’t doubt that his ass is getting followed as soon as Graeme leaves him.

Stiles searches through the things he took from his room until he comes up with the suspect list, and there. Right there. Matt Daehler’s name. It’s badly misspelled, which is why he thought nothing of Matthew Dawler on the list. He’d thought it was the name of a sex offender who’d dropped off the grid.

Well shit.

All the more reason to keep Daehler’s box. Make sure he didn’t do anything else like drugging more witnesses.

Graeme taps on Stiles’ window and nearly gives him a heart attack.

“Okay, Stiles. Here’s your license back. I need you to head to the station. I’ll be right behind you. Your dad wants to talk to you.” She glances down the street, like she’s observing the rubbernecking traffic, but he realizes that she’s scooping Daehler. He hasn’t moved.

“Am I in trouble?” Stiles asks. He’ll gladly accept a ticket. Hell, he’ll even take being hauled into the station if it means Daehler can’t get to him.

He’d probably accept it if Dad wants to ground him until he’s graduated college.

“You might be,” Graeme says. She points up the road. “I’ll be right behind you. Just drive the speed limit and you’ll be fine.”

Stiles doesn’t argue. Because Graeme slots in behind him, he can’t really see if Daehler follows them back to the station, but he’s certainly not around when Stiles heads into the building, followed closely by Graeme.

Dad meets them at the desk.

“What’s this about running a red light?” Dad looks disappointed, and Stiles wishes he’d brought Daehler’s box in with him, but he didn’t want to risk Dad confiscating it before Stiles has had a chance to document the evidence. Of course, it won’t help either of them if Daehler can recover it before Stiles gets back out to his Jeep.

“I was being chased by someone,” Stiles says.

“Matthew Daehler,” Graeme interrupts. “That scummy reporter I warned you about. The one that rides the signal and stakes out scenes for a scoop.”

Dad eyes Stiles, and it might be Stiles’ imagination, but his grounding just increased until he’s thirty fucking years old. “And how did you get tangled up in that?”

Stiles rolls his shoulders. “Been thinking about becoming a journalist.” Dad scoffs. Stiles continues anyway. Diggings holes is fun and sometimes, Stiles even manages to dig himself out of trouble. “He accidentally revealed that one of the biggest stories of his life, the Derek Hale murder, he’d gotten his source hooked on drugs. When he realized that I was the son of the new sheriff…” Stiles shrugs to drive home his point. Graeme and his dad exchange worried glances.

“You have a ticket,” Dad says. “Pay it and we won’t charge you with anything else. Hell, it won’t even go on your permanent record. And I need you to stay home. No going anywhere else. Only school and home. Do you understand?”

Stiles nods, biting back the “Yes sir,” his dad would probably appreciate.

“Also, I’m sending you home right now. A deputy will go with you to make sure Daehler isn’t anywhere near us. I don’t trust him not to do his research on you now that he knows who you are.” Dad points at another deputy and the deputy follows Stiles out to his Jeep.

“Jordan Parrish,” the deputy says. “Follow you back to yours?”

“Absolutely.”

A quick glance around doesn’t immediately show Daehler’s car, but Stiles doesn’t relax even when they pull into his driveway unscathed. Parrish watches as Stiles lugs the box into the house, comes in with him to make sure all doors and windows are locked and there are no investigative reporters hiding behind the shower curtain, then Parrish heads outside and sits in his car, parked in front of Mrs. Hennesey’s house.

Stiles borrows his dad’s study to take pictures of everything in the box. Somehow Daehler got his hands on all the pictures of Derek’s body and clothes. He didn’t get the autopsy results, but the most damning thing of all is his report of how he treated Peter Hale. The poor kid was just sixteen when Daehler slipped him a little heroin to loosen his traumatized tongue.

Creepily, Daehler has kept in touch with Peter all these years. It’s almost as if he’s keeping his finger on the pulse of his one big break. Or keeping Peter under his thumb.

Daehler is probably a control freak.

His organized notes, way neater than the actual cops’ notes, yield so much evidence that Stiles is honestly surprised that the case hasn’t been solved.

On a copy of Calhoun’s suspect list, the one recovered with his suicide note, Kate Argent’s name has been circled with the words “Sexual relationship with victim” scribbled next to it.

Stiles stifles a snort. Derek Hale was fourteen. In no way is Kate and his “relationship” anything other than rape. It might be statutory, but somehow, Stiles doubts it.

So that means, if Derek decided to tell, the best suspect is actually Kate Argent.

Of course, to confirm, Stiles will need to follow the crumbs.

And his first contact will be Daehler’s first contact.

Stiles doesn’t have heroin, but he can sympathize with Peter Hale. And that will have to be enough.

Thanks to Daehler’s organization, he finds a number for Peter, copies it into his phone. He packs everything away and takes it upstairs to hide under his bed.

Then, he settles on his bed with a pad of paper and a pen and dials Peter’s number with shaking hands.

He doesn’t know if Peter is even going to pick up. If the tables were reversed, he knows he wouldn’t.

The line rings almost six times before it clicks open right before voicemail picks up.

“’lo?” someone slurs.

“Peter Hale?” Stiles asks. “My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m affiliated with the sheriff’s department in Beacon Hills. We’re reopening your nephew’s case.”

There’s a hiccup or sob on the other end, someone shifting, and then the slurred voice comes back, slightly clearer. “My nephew? Derek? You’re looking into his death again?” Another shuffling noise. Then, “Why?”

“Sorry? Excuse me?”

“Why did you call me? Haven’t you got enough information from your undercover agent, what’s his face? Matty.”

“Turns out Matty was a dirty cop and we had to fire him,” Stiles improvises. “Now, I have some questions for you, just to verify that what I have from Matty is accurate.”

“Like what?” Peter snorts. “Like, was Derek’s freshman English teacher raping him every chance she got? Yeah. Did I know about it before he was murdered? Not by much. In fact, I was going to find him ‘cause he skipped school that morning and so did Kate Argent.” Peter sighs, and Stiles imagines that he’s looking around, trying to find his bearings, dragged back into the shit he’s probably tried his best to forget. “I told Calhoun that she was the main suspect, but by then, that damn Matty had his hooks in me.”

Peter scratches something near the phone. “Look, I’ll be completely honest with you, as soon as Sheriff Calhoun realized that I was a junkie, he discounted everything I said. I held out hope that Matty would make an arrest with the information I was able to give him.”

“Yeah, Matty was never going to do that.” Stiles bites his tongue on revealing just why Matty was a scumbag, aside from his obvious influence on Peter.

“Yeah, I think I got that, twenty years too late.”

“Eighteen,” Stiles automatically corrects, and then winces. It’s not like it really matters how accurate the time is. It’s been almost two decades, what’s two years?

“Yeah, eighteen years,” Peter says, bitterly. “Anyway. I’m guessing you want to meet with me.”

“That would be preferable,” Stiles says, holding his breath.

“Well, I’m not very mobile, so you’re going to have to come to me.”

“That is completely doable,” Stiles agrees, so fast he can barely speak. “Listen, pick a spot you feel safe, so I’m not, like, intruding on your personal place, and then text me the address. I’ll be driving a baby blue Jeep.”

Peter barks out a laugh. “Are you sure you’re a cop?” He falls silent for a few minutes, and Stiles can hear a weird hum in the background. Eventually, Peter comes back on the line. “Fine, yeah. There’s a park about two blocks from Kittredge Elementary School. Meet me there on El Camino Del Mar where it turns into Lincoln Boulevard. And Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Come alone.”

Peter hangs up, and Stiles sits back. Well, that was not how he expected that to go. He grabs a piece of paper and scribbles down Peter’s woefully lacking directions. Time to get a map and mark his route. Thank God for the Internet.

About twenty minutes later, he has everything ready. Map and directions printed out, supplies gathered, and Peter’s precious text saying, “Tomorrow. 2 pm.”

He’s really getting somewhere with Derek’s case. He’s almost too excited to sleep, but he forces himself down, tries to clear his mind, which only makes it spin faster, and lets the settling of the house lull him down enough to rest.


	6. Detective Work, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not familiar with San Francisco at all. The information was pulled from online maps, so it is most definitely inaccurate. Take any geography with a grain of salt and a cursory Internet search.

Stiles was so excited about Peter agreeing to meet him that he forgot one very important thing: his dad had grounded him for running the red light yesterday.

And since it was Sunday, Dad didn’t have work and was watching him like a hawk.

To be at the meeting place, Stiles needs to get on the road by 11:00 a.m. and with Dad dogging every step Stiles takes, there’s no reprieve. Until, miraculously, Dad gets called in.

Stiles waits exactly fifteen minutes before he climbs into his Jeep with his supplies, his kit of gloves and bags, the box from Daehler and the information from the actual case, gases up at the station on the edge of Beacon Hills, and hops on Highway 5.

Three hours later, he pulls into a gas station in San Francisco, gets more gas, uses the restroom, and then double checks his directions to the meeting place.

He’s got an hour before Peter will be there. Stiles decides to grab some lunch for both of them a little closer to the time, but first, he wants to scope it out. Make sure he can get out of a sticky situation easily if the need arises.

Time seems to slow down the closer he gets to the park until he turns onto El Camino Del Mar, following it for a couple blocks until he’s well and truly on Lincoln Boulevard. Then he turns around and parks near a table. From his vantage point, he can clearly see everyone entering the park, and with a little mirror adjustment, can see if anyone tries to sneak up on him.

He calls in a pizza order, gives directions to where he is, and waits with the doors locked for Peter Hale.

Daehler was so thorough with his deception on Peter Hale that he has a whole file on the man, complete with current photographs and medical diagnoses. Apparently, Peter has a large abscess on his leg, near his groin from repeated heroin injections. Explains why he’s not really mobile.

Indeed, about fifteen minutes before their scheduled meeting time, Stiles sees a compact two-door burnt orange car stop a few hundred feet away from him. Peter Hale, thirty-four years old at his last birthday, gaunt, skeletal, obviously limping, and seriously looking pissed off at the distance that he has to cover before he makes it to Stiles’ Jeep, climbs out of the passenger seat.

Stiles sets his phone to record sound and hides it in the box from Daehler, sitting behind the passenger seat.

“I could have come to you,” he says, unlocking and opening the door for Peter. He gets a grunt in response. Once Peter is settled, Stiles hands him the pizza.

“You don’t look like a cop,” Peter says, picking out a slice and then handing the box back to Stiles. He squints at him, studying him. “In fact, you don’t even look like you can be eighteen.”

Stiles shrugs, stuffing most of a slice into his mouth. Through the food, he says, “No. You’re right. I’m eighteen. A cadet.”

“And they let you meet with me all on your own?” Peter looks around. When he doesn’t immediately see anyone else, he sinks back against the seat, but he doesn’t relax. Stiles wonders if he shot up before the meeting and if he’s going to have to deal with the consequences of inviting an addict into his car.

“So, not to be brash or rude or anything, but what can you tell me about your nephew’s murder?”

“What don’t you already know?” Peter picks at the cheese of his slice. He hasn’t even pretended to eat it. “Like, you have all of Matty’s notes, right? I told him everything.”

“Except how you knew where to look for Derek when he was first discovered missing. According to the coroner, you found Derek only hours after he was killed.”

Peter scoffs. “I did tell the cops. I told my sister too. Hell, I told everyone who would listen: I found Derek there, I knew to look there when it was discovered that he hadn’t been at school because that’s where we used to go when we were kids. It was Derek’s and my clubhouse when we were eight and ten. Derek used to go there when he wanted to clear his head or hide from the world.”

“And how did you know about Kate Argent abusing him?”

Peter squishes the pizza in his fist, and for a long, long moment, Stiles doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer.

Then, with a stifled sob, Peter starts talking.

And Stiles listens with growing horror.

Kate Argent systematically separated Derek from all his friends, alienated him from his family by giving him a monumental secret to keep, and sexually abused him damn near every day for three years. And then killed him when he dared to run and hide from her.

Peter confesses that he was close to talking to his sister, Derek’s mother, when the threat of a storm rolled in.

“Classes were supposed to be canceled, but we don’t get much snow even this far north. And even though we got some snow, school was still going on. Derek took off before I was ready and I was just going to catch up to him at school, but he wasn’t there. I didn’t have time to go look for him until lunch but by then, it was too late.”

Peter scratches at his arm, sauce smearing like blood. “I never went back to school. Dropped out.” He covers his face, and Stiles digs out a pack of wet wipes so that he can clean up a little. He also dumps the pizza box in the backseat, appetite gone.

“And then Matthew Daehler got you addicted to drugs,” Stiles says.

Peter nods. “He offered relief. I just didn’t realize what the cost would be.” He looks up, eyes shining. “I thought, at first, that he was just trying to get me through a rough patch, but when he wouldn’t stop, got mad at me for seeking out another source, I realized that he was just using me. But,” a tear rolls down Peter’s cheek, and he doesn’t wipe it away, “I kept going back to him because I thought it’d keep me close to Derek. Instead, I lost the rest of the family. I don’t even know how to get in touch with my sister or my nieces. I don’t even know if they’re still in Beacon Hills.”

“They are,” Stiles says. “Talia, your sister, works at the pharmacy and her husband works at a garage. I don’t know where Laura is, but Cora is a substitute teacher at Beacon Hills High. She just started this year.”

“Do you think they’d want to see me?” Peter asks. Stiles suddenly doesn’t see the almost emaciated thirty-four year old man sitting in his passenger seat, worrying a wipe to shreds. Instead, he sees a sixteen year old boy, nervously wondering if he’s done something so irredeemable that his family has permanently turned their backs on him.

“I’m sure they’d love to hear from you,” Stiles says. “How about you come back to Beacon Hills with me, and if it doesn’t work out, I can bring you back here?”

Peter looks like he’s thinking about it seriously before he shakes his head. He points at the orange car still waiting for him. “My boyfriend needs me.”

“Your boyfriend or your dealer?” Stiles asks.

Peter doesn’t blush. Apparently, he isn’t ashamed of the fact that Stiles has picked up on the source of his ride. He just clicks his tongue, an acknowledgment.

After a few minutes of silence, Peter leans over and says, lowly, “They never recovered the murder weapon. Kate was spotted shortly after the murder, on the way to the doctor’s for a note to excuse her from school. She didn’t have time to stash the weapon before then so it must still be in the root cellar.” He jerks away, smirking bitterly. “The cops never believed me that she was the murderer so they never looked there as far as Matty told me.”

“They still don’t,” Stiles reveals. “But I think I can change their mind on that fact.”

“Find the weapon. That’ll have the evidence.”

Without another word, Peter opens his door and climbs out. Stiles locks his doors and watches until he gets into the orange car and it drives away. Then Stiles pulls out his notepad and writes down what he remembers as fast as he can.

He pulls out his phone, saves the recording, and then starts driving. He ignores the fact that he has seventeen missed calls from his dad along with a bunch of texts from his dad and his acquaintances from school.

He’s definitely in trouble.

Well. Too deep in it to stop now.

Although, if he goes home, there is no way he can get out again to look around in the root cellar for the murder weapon. Why it would still be there is a mystery, but maybe the deputies really were so incompetent eighteen years ago that they didn’t search everywhere in the root cellar.

Or maybe it was a cover up. Maybe one of the deputies was in Kate Argent’s pocket. Maybe even the old sheriff. Perhaps that was why he’d thrown suspicion on her before he killed himself.

Or maybe it’s Daehler who’s in Kate’s pocket. Why else would he keep such a tight leash on Peter now that the damage has been done?

Stiles stops once to get more gas and throw away the mostly untouched pizza.

Then he drives straight to the entrance of the preserve. He parks under a tree, makes sure his Jeep isn’t easily visible from the road, grabs his evidence kit, and makes the trek in to the root cellar.

Before he goes in, he tugs on a pair of gloves and pulls out a flashlight. CSI shows have been canceled for years, but he feels like he’s in one of those dramas as he descends the steps. He sweeps the light from side to side, but aside from his prints from the last time he was here, it’s untouched.

Well. If he were a murderer trying to get away with it, where would he hide the weapon?

There’s shelves all along the back wall, but on the right-hand side, some of them have collapsed, like they were knocked down or smashed. Stiles steps closer. Yeah, there’s definite damage to the standing shelves. Something broke them apart. The deputies definitely missed something all those years ago because none of this damage was noted in the reports.

Carefully, because he can see shards of glass glinting in the light from his flashlight, Stiles starts digging.

About a foot down, he encounters something hard and long.

_Aha!_ Stiles thinks, pulling out a metal pole. He knew the killer hadn’t been too careful. They’d thought they could get away with it. Well, he’s going to expose them.

“Gotcha,” he mutters quietly.

Almost immediately, a blinding pain slams through his head, and he’s knocked to his knees. Before he can right himself, the pain sends him sprawling.

He manages to half turn and sees the fury and hate on his attacker’s face. Peter was right all along.

_Great_ , Stiles thinks, right before another blow falls, _killed by an English teacher_. She really will get away with it.

Then, Stiles Stilinski takes his last, rattling breath while Kate Argent smashes his face beyond recognition.

Stiles dies on a Sunday evening.


	7. The End and the Beginning

Stiles manages to stay awake for more than fifteen minutes in a row on what Derek thinks is his second or third day dead. Stiles has, against Derek’s advice, watched his own death.

“Fucking knew it,” he mutters when Kate drops her hood. “I knew that bitch had something to do with your murder. I was so close to proving it too.”

“I know,” Derek says, because there really isn’t anything else to say. He doesn’t know how close Stiles really was to solving his murder since he’d stopped checking in on him.

“I knew she had something to do with it,” Stiles repeats.

“Did you really?”

Stiles shrugs. “I knew her name was on the list for a reason.”

“What list?” Derek has a suspicion. Sheriff Calhoun’s suicide note contained his top five suspects for the one case he couldn’t solve. Kate Argent was number five. A sexual predator who had recently moved to town was number one. Derek doesn’t remember the other names. He saw Kate’s and forgot all the others.

He’d hoped that the death of the sheriff would have reopened his case, but the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department decided that they didn’t have the resources at that time.

Now Stiles is here with him.

“Is your dad studying the case?” he asks.

Stiles nods. “I managed to get some of the evidence, like, take pictures and stuff. I thought it was suspicious that you’d been raped by a woman and her name was the only female suspect on the list aside from your family.”

Derek should be used to these facts. He knows all of them. He’s seen all of them. It’s still jarring to hear Stiles say he was raped. Even when he was alive and Kate was doing those things to him, no one had said he’d been raped. The closest anyone had come was that survivor’s seminar. Although, now that he is thinking about it, that could have been Paige’s way of telling him she knew without making him say the words.

“So you automatically assumed she was my murderer?”

Stiles shakes his head, looking a little ashamed. “Actually, I spoke to your uncle, Peter. He told me that he suspected what Kate was doing to you. He told me that he’d wanted to follow you to school the day you died. Calhoun put Kate on his list because of what Peter said. But because Peter got forced onto drugs, he never took it seriously.”

Derek knows Peter’s addicted. He’s watched a few bubbles of Peter, trying to be there for his uncle the same way he was for him. He doesn’t know if one day he’ll find Peter’s body, but so far, his uncle is usually staring up at whatever passes for a ceiling. Sometimes, it’s like he can still see Derek.

Stiles’ words register suddenly and sharply. “Wait, Peter was forced into drugs? Who did that?”

“The reporter, Matthew Daehler. He was using Peter as a source and then, I don’t know, just decided to keep using him.”

“What does that mean?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Peter said that Daehler was his dealer and then got mad when he found his own dealer.”

“Does your dad know?” Derek asks.

“He knows my phone’s password, and all Daehler’s evidence is in my Jeep.”

“And where’s that?” Derek quickly scans the bubbles, but they don’t reveal anything. They’ve always been a way for him to look out for people, not objects.

Arguably, though, bodies are objects that were once people.

“It’s in front of the preserve. Kinda hidden, you know. I mean, it’s probably pretty obvious where I am to someone who knows where to look.”

“Does your dad know where to look?”

Stiles shrugs. “Does one of these show him?”

Derek points at the bubble that always shows the Sheriff’s Station, stocked twenty-four-seven with deputies so he’s always able to watch it.

Stiles peers down, nose almost touching the surface of the bubble. He pulls back, grinning excitedly. “Dad’s looking at tracing my phone. I had it on me when I died, and Kate didn’t touch anything after she smashed my face in.”

“Obliterated your head, more like,” Derek corrects. He kneels down next to Stiles and watches as the Sheriff tugs at his hair while someone barks into a phone. After a few minutes, they all sag in relief.

 _He’s in the preserve,_ a deputy says. Derek doesn’t know his name. He’s been here for a few years now. Young, fresh-faced, likes to joke that people don’t take him seriously because he’s too good-looking when it’s really because he looks like he’s twelve. _It looks like it’s about two and a half miles in._

Realization sinks in and the Sheriff goes white. _The preserve? You mean, he’s at the root cellar?_

The Sheriff doesn’t wait for an answer and grabs his gun and a set of keys. Only fresh-face is fast enough to follow him out to the cruiser and climb into the passenger seat.

Derek tugs on Stiles’ sleeve and leads him through the bubbles until they find his dad again. They watch together as Stiles’ dad and the deputy, “Parrish,” Stiles murmurs quietly, race toward to the preserve. Parrish is on the phone, getting more details about where exactly Stiles’ phone is pinging off of.

They stop at the entrance of the preserve and the Sheriff gets out to pull the chain aside. He freezes, staring wide-eyed at Stiles’ Jeep. It’s nearly invisible where it’s parked behind a row of trees.

Parrish joins him and swears quietly. _I’ll call it in. He’s definitely in the root cellar._

 _Stiles, you’d better be okay,_ Stiles’ dad says, but his voice shakes so hard it’s not easy to hear. Derek thinks that the Sheriff knows that Stiles is in trouble.

He steals a quick glance at Stiles to see how he’s doing. “How long has it been since he’s seen you?”

“He’s going to find my body, isn’t he?” Stiles asks quietly, just watching as his dad and Parrish follow his path through the preserve. “They’re going to find me, and my dad is going to see me dead.”

That hollowness in Stiles’ voice has been Derek’s life for the last eighteen years. All he can do is sit next to Stiles and watch with him.

It takes about twenty minutes for the Sheriff and Parrish to reach the root cellar. The doors are wide open. Kate didn’t bother closing them. She’s not connected to Stiles and she’s just a name on a list for Derek’s murder.

She feels safe that she won’t be connected to this murder.

She blitzed Stiles from behind. He didn’t even scratch her. She’s free.

She’s going to get away with it again.

In those twenty minutes, Stiles starts rocking back and forth, lips moving without sound. He stares intently as his dad takes that first step down into the root cellar, flashlight held high.

The sound Stiles’ dad makes when he sees his son’s body makes Derek’s hair stand on edge. It’s like an electric shock through his body. Peter made almost the same sound when he found Derek.

Parrish hauls the Sheriff out and a little way away from the root cellar. They both lean over, breathing hard. The Sheriff is crying, sobbing, begging. And Parrish just holds onto him.

Above them, Derek and Stiles watch silently. Sometime after his dad starts throwing up, Stiles starts crying. Derek wraps his arms around him and just holds on.

When the scene is cordoned off, and other deputies, departments from the surrounding three counties converge, Stiles finally shakes off Derek and walks back to the bubble showing his death.

Stiles just stands there, watching as Kate kills him again and again and again.

“There,” he finally says. “When she took off her hood. Some hairs could have been dislodged. Long blonde hairs on my body? Not mine. The suspect’s.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He’d thought Kate had left plenty of evidence behind, but no one ever cared to run DNA on the vaginal fluid on his penis. It was assumed that he was sexually active even though he was just fourteen and had never had a partner.

The deputies of 2022 seem to be more competent than the ones from 2004. They’ve already bagged up both of Kate’s weapons. Stiles’ body is on its way to the morgue. So many pictures have been taken.

“They’ve got to catch her,” Stiles insists. “I mean, she left evidence, right? That’s why Peter told me to find the weapon. He suspected her, said she hadn’t had time to do more than hide the weapon because she was getting her alibi in order not long after she attacked you.”

“I guess.” It’s possible, and Derek knows why Stiles is clinging to the faint hope that his murder will be solved. Derek did that once too. It turned into eighteen years for him. He hopes Stiles isn’t waiting that long.

“What happens when our murders are solved?” Stiles asks. “Do we move on? Go to Heaven? Get reincarnated? What?”

Derek shrugs. He doesn’t know. There hasn’t been anyone else up here that he’s seen. Sometimes he thinks he sees outlines of people passing through. Just the other day, before Stiles showed up, he thought he’d seen two women and a baby in the arms of one of them. They’d been just a flicker, gone when he tried to focus on them, faded away like an after exposure.

“I guess Heaven,” he says. “I don’t know. I wasn’t religious when I was alive. How about you? Where do you think we go when they figure out our deaths?”

It’s Stiles’ turn to shrug. “I don’t know.” He peers down at his murder again before walking back to the bubble where his dad is still sitting next to the root cellar, watching as the coroner’s van pulls away, the majority of deputies all keeping a respectful distance as they discuss the bits of things they’ve found.

 _Hey,_ one of the deputies breaks away and approaches the Sheriff. _So, we found your son’s phone on him. It’s still working. Do you have his password?_

The sheriff sticks out a hand, accepting the bagged phone. _Touch screen?_

_Yeah, but the bag is able to be manipulated so you don’t have to actually touch it._

The Sheriff enters a number and the phone lights up. It looks like a handheld gaming system to Derek, and he’s mad, for the first time in years, that he was killed before he could experience more of the world.

“The recording,” Stiles says suddenly.

“What?”

“I recorded my meeting with Peter. It’s on the phone. They should find it.”

“Does it solve our murders?”

Stiles purses his lips, probably recalling the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say so. I mean, Peter pretty heavily threw shade on Kate. Oh, also we talked about how Matthew Daehler got Peter addicted, so I’m sure he’ll get something too.”

“That’s good. I’m glad your dad will have closure.”

“Your family will too.”

They sit in silence, watching Stiles’ dad’s bubble as the Sheriff finally allows Parrish to drive him home where he digs out a half full bottle of whiskey and downs it in several gulps before he starts sobbing again.

They watch him for about a week, and none of those days is he sober, until one of the other sheriffs stops by.

_I just wanted to let you know that we got her. We got your son’s killer. It’s Kate Argent. She also confessed to killing Derek Hale eighteen years ago._

In his drunken stupor, the Sheriff just stares at him before nodding tightly. _Any accomplices? Kate didn’t just happen upon Stiles. She went there to kill him._

_Yeah. Uh, Matthew Daehler. Apparently he’d gotten some information that Kate was, uh, raping Derek Hale—she didn’t touch your son at all. Never. And Daehler...He knew that Stiles would go out to the root cellar. Apparently Stiles had gone out there a lot? So he just…told Kate about it._

_And why would he do that?_

Derek also wants to know. Wasn’t it enough that Daehler had hurt Peter so much? Had found an open wound and poured acid on it to keep it from scabbing over? Why would Daehler want to have Stiles killed?

_We don’t know for sure but we suspect it was because your son pulled a fast one on him and he couldn’t let the insult go. I’m so sorry for your loss._

Stiles sinks back on his heels. “So Daehler won in the end,” he says, bitter and angry.

“If there’s any justice, he’ll go to prison,” Derek says.

Stiles shakes his head. “If there was justice, Sheriff Calhoun would have followed the evidence and your murder wouldn’t have gone unsolved for so long.”

He stands up and stalks away. Before turning back and screaming one loud, long sound at the nothingness and bubbles that surround them.

Then he turns around again to stalk away. He stops and marches back, grabbing Derek and dragging him away from the Sheriff’s bubble. He stops again and points over Derek’s shoulder into the distance. “What’s that?”

“What?” Derek turns, expecting just to see the familiar emptiness that is limbo, only to see a wall, built from white bricks, stretching all along the horizon. “What is that?”

“You’ve never seen it before?”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

They walk up to it. Derek half expects it to be like a dream, where the closer they get, the farther away it is, but no, after ten minutes of walking, they reach the wall. It’s taller than he thought at first, too tall to see over and definitely too thick to see through. There is a door in the middle of it, and they stop in front of it.

Derek runs his hand over the wall. It feels solid. More solid than anything he’s touched in a long time. Aside from Stiles.

“And you really had no idea this was here?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Derek says, again. “I never saw it before.”

“Well, we should see what’s behind it, don’t you think? What if it disappears before we get that chance?”

“What if this side disappears before we get back to it?” Derek counters, but he has to admit that he’s curious too.

Stiles glances back, torn. Obviously, he wants to stay with the bubble that will let him keep an eye on his dad. Derek knows that feeling. It’s why he’s trekked back and forth, moving from bubble to bubble for so long. Keeping track of his family.

“We can go just a little ways in,” he says, aware that he’s now advocating for exploring. His chapter here is done. He wants to see what else there is. Maybe they’ll eventually find their way back. It’s selfish of him, but he hopes Stiles comes with him.

Stiles gives a last, longing look at his dad’s bubble and then he takes Derek’s hand and together they push open the door.

At first, it just looks like another expanse of nothingness. White floor stretching for what must be miles.

Behind them, the floor has been churned so thoroughly by Derek’s routine that it looks more like clouds with ripples and dimples.

This floor is pristine, and because of that, it takes a while to see that it’s almost exactly like the other side.

With one glaring exception: there are so more many bubbles here. They’re all opaque, unopened.

Derek picks one and pokes it. It clears to an image of Stiles, more grown up than sixteen, standing next to a black haired man, both of them wearing suits. It’s a wedding, Derek realizes. His only experience of weddings is watching Laura get married over and over again.

“So that’s you,” he says to Stiles, and Stiles leans down, studying the scene. “Alternate timeline?”

“Multi-verse,” Stiles murmurs. “But who’s that?” The other man has his back to them at first, and then the officiator says, _You may now kiss the groom._

Stiles-in-the-bubble puts an arm around the man’s shoulders and dips him backward in a deep kiss.

Derek can’t keep back his gasp.

Stiles-in-the-bubble is kissing him. Derek. Derek-in-the-bubble. Derek-not-murdered-at-fourteen is kissing Stiles-in-the-bubble back.

“We dated?” Stiles asks, incredulous

“We got married,” Derek says, pointing at where the bubble-them are running down an aisle while people around them toss flower petals at them.

Stiles looks around at all the bubbles. “So what are all of these?” He pokes another bubble. This time, they both recognize themselves right away. Even though they both look like they’re older again.

“What is that?” Derek asks as bubble-Derek shoves a package at bubble-Stiles, who looks completely startled or stricken. He opens it carefully although they seem to be arguing from how tense they are.

“That’s a sweater,” Stiles answers. “I think you made it.”

“Me?” Derek leans closer, catching a bit of the conversation.

_—Saturday mornings._

_Okay. Keep the sweater._

“What about that one?” Stiles taps another bubble and they watch as bubble-Stiles and bubble-Derek stand next to two other people in an austere building.

“Are we together in that one?” Derek asks. It’s a curious thing, watching himself get married to and interact with Stiles when they never met in real life, and if they had, Derek would be twice Stiles’ age.

“I think so,” Stiles answers, pointing as, after the couple that just got married leaves, bubble-Derek leans into bubble-Stiles and whispers something into his ear. “They’ve got matching rings.”

“Do you think all these bubbles are us?” Derek asks. He taps a few bubbles just to see what’s inside and Stiles taps more too.

In Derek’s first bubble, he sees bubble-Stiles grab bubble-Derek’s arm in the middle of a garage. Laura is there, holding a guitar and looking a little sad. Reflexively, Derek looks at Stiles. “Together,” he says.

One of Stiles’ bubbles has a pet shop, and bubble-them are talking to a man that Derek barely recognizes as the old veterinarian who used have a practice on the edge of town closest to the preserve. He doesn’t think he’s a veterinarian though because he’s talking about platonic soulmates.

“Are we platonic soulmates?” Derek asks. “Is that why we’re in all these bubbles?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just watching the bubbles he activated. “All I see is that we don’t die when we’re together,” he finally says, gesturing at a scene of bubble-Stiles with cat ears and a cat tail watching as Derek cowers under Kate Argent’s hands. There’s another man there, and he somehow makes Kate melt into a puddle of goo.

Stiles activates a few more bubbles. “I don’t think we’re platonic,” he says, pointing to a scene where bubble-Stiles and bubble-Derek are actively engaged in some very adult business. “And we’re not always human,” he adds, right as bubble-Derek roars in a very not-human way.

“You’re a cat in that one,” Derek points. “And I’m, what? A wolf? In this one.”

“A werewolf,” Stiles jokes. “I mean, look at those eyes and those teeth.”

“Am I even supposed to be looking at this? Isn’t porn illegal until you’re eighteen?”

“It’s sex, not porn,” Stiles says, but he does move on to another bubble. Again, it’s them. This time, it’s Stiles sitting on the back of a blue couch, bare feet on the cushions, next to Derek, blood on his shirt and holding an ice pack over a blackened, swollen eye.

“Ouch. You look like someone punched your face in.”

 _I’m here,_ bubble-Stiles says. _I’ll always be here. I won’t let her hurt you ever again._

 _That’s the thing,_ bubble-Derek says, muffled, like he’s been crying. _She always gets what she wants. I don’t know if I’m even strong enough to leave her. It’s just a matter of time before she comes to get me, and I go back with her._

 _You’ll probably end up dead if you do,_ bubble-Stiles points out.

Bubble-Derek nods. _I wish I could stay with you forever._

Derek looks up to find Stiles, his Stiles, watching him.

“Maybe all these bubbles are us,” Stiles says, “and maybe we’re also part of the bubbles. Different universes. One constant.”

“We’re together.”

“Yeah, so, maybe we stay together here too. You know, just go exploring and watch all our different lives instead of just the bubbles of our original life.”

“What about your dad?”

Stiles looks back the way they came. “We can always come back. It’s not like there’s anything else for us to do.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I am.” Stiles takes his hand.

Together, they start walking, occasionally opening a bubble just to make sure that they’re still together. And they usually are. Sometimes it seems like a long time, like when they saw bubble-Stiles apologizing to a very-scarred bubble-Derek, and sometimes it seems like they’ve just met, but Stiles is right: every time they’re together and neither of them are dead.

They wander for a long time, always together, always watching themselves.

A lot of the bubbles are scenes of them having sex, which doesn’t get any less embarrassing for Derek, but he does like the kissing scenes.

He especially likes it when his Stiles kisses him too.

~ End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking a chance on this story.
> 
> Questions are now open. If there was something that was not addressed during the story and you are curious about it, please ask me now because the story is fresh in my mind (date:10/10/20).
> 
> Also, I referenced at least 8 of my written stories (and 1 unwritten story) in the end. If you would like a drabble (100-1000 words) from me to you, comment with at least one of the titles and what you want me to write.
> 
> Happy reading!


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